Fable

In the Parlour of Fables

In a cosy old parlour, soft light spills,
A leaf‑bound book opens with a hiss–swirl‑will.
Red‑haired fox, round‑eyed owl, and timid hare,
Gather round the fire as the tale begins to fare.

It speaks of a garden where the potted pride grew,
And the stubborn seed who was urged to be true.
The duck at the pond, carrying a gilded quill,
Murmurs a lesson the fishes cannot still.

The author, an old scribe with a silver braid,
Watches the characters in a curious cascade.
“Beware the boast,” he coos, “for pride is a chain,
But kindness can shine brighter than any saint.”

The moral, uncannily plain as a brass bell,
Hums through the room, riding a majestic swell.
When old folk stand at the window in creaking time,
They peer into the fable, and their hearts, they re‑prime.

So, tuck this tale into your mind’s attic, then,
Let the animals walk in your dreams, and then,
When dawn’s first light paints the sky in gentle blue,
Remember: a fable’s truth lives forever in you.